


fire, lightning, and other bright things

by RedHorse



Series: Tomarry/Harrymort prompt fills [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: Harry is Jane, M/M, Tom is Rochester, this is not on brand at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 15:47:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20762876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHorse/pseuds/RedHorse
Summary: Inspired by a work by kami. I hope she likes it <3I enjoy Jane Eyre so much that I didn't deviate substantially from the scene I adapted. And in some cases I couldn't bring myself to exclude favorite lines, which are indicated in bold. Most of the writing is my own approximation of Bronte's inimitable voice, so it is what it is; if something sounds particularly lovely, it is almost certainly her words and not mine.I encourage you to read all of Jane Eyre, but the portion that appears in this work begins near the middle of Chapter 12.





	fire, lightning, and other bright things

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a work by kami. I hope she likes it <3
> 
> I enjoy Jane Eyre so much that I didn't deviate substantially from the scene I adapted. And in some cases I couldn't bring myself to exclude favorite lines, which are indicated in bold. Most of the writing is my own approximation of Bronte's inimitable voice, so it is what it is; if something sounds particularly lovely, it is almost certainly her words and not mine.
> 
> I encourage you to read all of Jane Eyre, but the portion that appears in this work begins near the middle of Chapter 12.

I searched the advertisements for hire in the country as an escape from the rigors of my academy. Also, I ventured there having completed my education and with no alternative to seeking work aside from returning to the Dursleys’, where even had I desired to go, I knew I was unwelcome. 

The advertisement for a young lady’s tutor seemed to promise such a respite. Indeed, upon my arrival I hoped that my aspirations for peace and quiet and pleasant company were not misplaced. My first introduction to Mrs. Weasley, the housekeeper, found her a placid-tempered, kind-natured woman. My pupil Delphini was a lively child, who had been spoilt and indulged, and therefore was sometimes wayward; but I was given free rein to regulate her behavior and she was easily discouraged from tantrums and encouraged toward kindness. Her youthful energy and efforts to please endeared her to me.

Still, I looked forward to the periods where I could leave Delphini to her own devices for a time, or in the care of another member of the house, in order to take walks alone on the grounds, or to climb the three flights of stairs to the attic and from there, the rooftop, where I could see a great distance over the fields and hills.

In those moments I yearned to see further still; a great distance, beyond the capacity of the human eye, to the busy world I knew lay somewhere out of sight. I imagined those bustling cities and exotic regions I had heard of but never seen. To go forth and explore the wider world was my true desire, rather than spending all my life confined to the books and academics which had insofar been the limit of my experience. And though Mrs. Weasley and Delphini were good companions, there was a different sort of companionship I felt must exist somewhere, outside my experience but which I wished to behold.

The sole relief for my restlessness was to walk the third-story corridor and allow my imagination to wander. The visions that rose before my mind’s eye felt more vivid and moved my heart in a way I felt more deeply than anything in my life which could be called real.

Winter came and Delphini, a delicate creature, fell ill with a mild cold. Mrs. Weasley begged I allow her a holiday to recover, and as I recalled from my own childhood the delirious freedom of being given a respite from my lessons, I agreed. That day was cold but clear and calm, and I could not bring myself to sit still in the library. Mrs. Weasley had finished a letter which was ready to be posted, so I seized the opportunity for escape and offered to carry it for her into the town, a pleasant two-mile walk from the Hall.

It was afternoon, and after a short distance of brisk walking, I felt warm enough to slow down and enjoy the quiet and solitude. There was a stretch of the route which was particularly quiet, sheltered by large trees tolled to leaflessness by the winter days. Beyond the trees and easily visible through their bare branches, empty fields stretched as far as my eye could see, and not so much as the rustling of wind disturbed the calm.

I sat on the stone stairs embedded in the fence at the edge of the lane, holding my cloak around my shoulders and flexing my fingers within my gloves. I did not feel the cold, but I could see its evidence all around me. There was a brook alongside the road which had surged in the past morning’s rain, then frozen this day to a glittering crust over one stretch of the causeway.

I stayed longer than I should, until the sun fell from the sky and I knew I could delay no longer without owing Mrs. Weasley an excuse for my absence. As I walked eastward, I saw the moon rising over the town I approached, still a mile distant but easily visible as I walked the uppermost slope of the lane. I heard the sounds of the town, too, the murmur of voices and activity, like a river heard from a distance.

The peace was disrupted by a metallic clatter, a stark contrast to the soft and distant noises to which I had attuned myself in the preceding moments. I heard, and recognized, the sound well before I saw its source, further along the winding lane and hidden by the trees and the slope of the causeway. A horse was coming. I pressed myself back from the lane, gripping the edge of the stone fence there, to let it pass.

A feeling of eerie discomfiture struck me. Perhaps it was the dusking sky or the prolonged period of solitude. Perhaps it was my overactive imagination, my propensity for daydreams. I thought of an old tale oft told by the Dursleys’ housekeeper, wherein a horse, mule, or large dog haunted deserted roads and, should it come upon single travelers, snatched them away from their world and took them to its own.

When the sound grew deafening with proximity, I made out a second close-by noise, that of a large animal running through the hedge. A great dog emerged, black in color and, in the falling darkness, made nearly invisible save for its white patches. The dog ran past without snatching me, to my relief.

The horse appeared, a tall silver-bodied creature with a straight-backed rider. The traveler was a man in dark riding clothes and a hat; that was all I perceived before they were past. I stepped away from the fence and walked in the direction of the town, expecting to hear only the retreating clatter of hooves behind me, when instead there was an exclamation and the sharp sound of a body striking ice.

I swung about to find that both man and horse had fallen. They lay in that glaze of ice I had admired in the afternoon sun, but which was now veiled by the evening darkness. The dog doubled back, stood over the fallen man, and barked at a pitch that echoed off the evening hills. The noise was startling, but the dog kept at it, looking to and fro as though appealing for help. Seeing no other rescuer, the great shaggy dog ran toward me, amber eyes supplicant.

I followed the dog cautiously toward the traveler. He was swearing and struggling out from beneath his thrashing horse, which could gain no traction to right itself, given the slipperiness of the rocky lane.

It was obvious that the man was in no peril, yet I asked the question anyway, dictated by manners — “Are you injured, sir?”

He seemed to be swearing, though not precisely at me. In any event, I could not be sure he had heard me, so I repeated my question. “Can I do anything?” 

“You must just stand aside,” he pronounced, agitated, as he got to his knees, and then his feet. I did so, and though I knew he meant for me to go along my way, I wanted to ensure the horse found its feet. 

As though sensing its rider was clear, the horse heaved and lurched with renewed determination and righted itself. “Down, Naga!” the traveler said shortly to the dog, which finally ceased barking, as its master bent and felt down his calf, booted in shiny black leather, as if to establish his soundness. Apparently his inspection was not without evidence of injury, for he limped to the steps upon which I had so recently been sat, and reclined there.

Still, I could not bring myself to go on toward the town, in case he should require assistance. “If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch someone either from town or Salazar Hall.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, giving me a sharp look. The sight of his face even in shadow startled me. He was not young, but he had all the handsome advantage of middle age. “I shall do. I have no broken bones—only a sprain.” He again attempted to stand and bear weight on his favored foot, but his efforts resulted in an involuntary “Ugh!”

He wore a riding jacket, and no cloak despite the wintry day. He was tall, with considerable breadth of chest, yet lean. His features were stern but sculpted. I had the sense he was something to be avoided; shied from. My urge to help vanished. Not because he did not appeal, but because he was so appealing. Beauty and elegance fascinated me no less than any other man, and yet I knew instinctively their incarnation in masculine shape neither had nor could have sympathy with anything in me. I had the powerful sense I should shun him as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic.

He waved that I should go, but despite my desire to do exactly that, perhaps to break into a run along the lane which had just proved so treacherous, I paused instead.

“I cannot leave you, sir, at so late an hour, in this solitary lane, til I see you are fit to mount your horse.”

He looked at me, for the first time longer than a quick glance. “I should think you ought to be at home yourself. Where do you come from?”

I nodded toward the western slope of the curving lane. “From just below. It is not yet so late. I have no intention of going home until I have been to town to post a letter. If you bid me, I will seek help for you there.”

“You live ‘just below’? Do you mean at that house with the battlements?” He pointed toward Salazar Hall, visible in miniature a mile away, its white walls gleaming beneath the low-hanging moon.

“Yes.”

“Whose house is it?”

It seemed rude to ask, yet I answered. “Mr. Riddle’s.”

“Do you know Mr. Riddle?”

A strange question. “No, I have never seen him.”

“He is not resident, then?”

“No.” I had indeed been at the hall a half year, but even tales of Mr. Riddle were scarce in the hall, as though the servants feared to speak his name.

“Can you tell me where he is?”

“I cannot.”

“You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are—” He stopped and ran an eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple: a black merino cloak, a simple hat, neither of them half fine enough for a gentleman’s valet. He seemed puzzled to decide what I was; I helped him.

“I am the tutor.”

“Ah, the tutor!” he repeated. “I had forgotten. The tutor!” He looked at me again, with a thoroughness this time which made me blush. Then he rose from the steps, but he looked pained as he moved.

“I cannot commission you to fetch help, but you may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have nothing that I can use as a stick?”

“No.”

He made a thoughtful noise. “Try to get hold of my horse’s bridle and lead him to me.” The horse chose that moment to stamp its foot, looking fierce and wild as the moon its silver coat mirrored. “You are not afraid?”

I had never had a discourse with horses, and should have been afraid if it had been my own inclination. But when told to do it, I was disposed to obey. I approached the horse warily, and it eyed me with equivalent distrust. Refusing to hesitate under the traveler’s watchful eye, I reached for the bridle. The horse slung its head out of reach, then stepped to and fro, threatening to trample my feet. The traveler watched in amusement, which finally manifested in a laugh, delighted by my frustrations.

“I see the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet, so all you can do is to aid Mahomet to go to the mountain; I must beg of you to come here.”

I came. “Excuse me,” he continued, “necessity compels me to make you useful.” He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me with some stress, limped to his horse. I was cognizant of his taller body pressed against mine, the surprising heat of him through his clothing though he was not dressed for winter. His gloved hand clutched my waist with a familiarity that made warmed me to an equivalent heat, so that as he parted from me, I had the strange urge to strip off my cloak and gloves for relief from the burning and quivering of my skin. 

The traveler did not notice my vexations. Having once caught the bridle, and without difficulty, he mastered the horse with a firm murmured word, set his hand on its withers, and sprang to his saddle.

“Now,” he said, releasing his under lip from a hard bite, “just hand me my whip; it lies there under the hedge.”

I sought and found it, somehow, though the grass and shadow masked it. When I handed it up to him, he gazed down at me and there was something in his bearing which made me think of a statue on a mount. Inhuman and beautiful, an artist’s rendering with the moon holding him in spotlight.

“Thank you; now make haste with the letter to town, and return as fast as you can.”

He touched the horse with his spur and, still anxious from its own fall, the horse started and reared, almost losing purchase on the road a second time. But then it found traction and bounded away, and the dog rushed to keep pace. All three vanished into the dark.

It should have been a minor event in my life: occurring and then forgotten, fading from memory as quickly as the sights and sounds I had basked in throughout the other moments of my walk. And yet I found the image of the traveler’s face suspended in my thoughts. How he had gazed down from aboard his horse. Perhaps it was his queer parting words, as though he intended I return not to my little room in Salazar Hall when my letter had been deposited, but instead directly to him, wherever his destination lay.

I found the thought caused a pleasant prickling in my skin, and blamed my propensity for daydreams when the rest of my walk was absorbed by the thought of the traveler propped before the fire in some faceless room, boot cast away and trousers rolled to his knee, awaiting me that I might soothe the ache in his bruised leg.


End file.
